BOMB SITE

 Peter Woodgate

Dust settles over the bones of buildings

as plimsoll’d feet pick their way

over the playground of mangled mortar,

scrambling over the shattered shells

of bomb-blasted homes.

 

Fingers fumble with the flotsam

found floating on the sea of destruction,

as vermin vanish down holes,

avoiding brick missiles,

hurled with energetic innocence,

from carefree youthfulness.

 

Laughter fills the air!

It is the sound of the future,

for the past lies silent,

buried by the bugs,

that fell, like whispers in the night.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate